


Two Birthdays That Never Were, And One That Was

by micehell



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: AU (for some parts), Angst (for some parts), M/M, Schmoop (for some parts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-23
Updated: 2008-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Make a wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Birthdays That Never Were, And One That Was

1.  
The concert was over. He was so tired, sweat drying and itchy on his skin, but he knew the others wouldn't let him just go and shower in peace. Not today, anyway.

He'd told himself he'd go along with whatever it was for a little while, then make his excuses and leave. Just long enough that they knew he appreciated the thought, but not long enough that he'd still be around when things got out of hand, as they always did. When he saw the cake, though, far too large to be real, and far too garish to be subtle, he groaned, wishing he could just say screw them all and leave them to it.

But they were his band, and he liked them well enough, most of the time at least, and he guessed he could sit through the big-breasted stripper that was likely to be their idea of fun. Their idea of funny, too, tweaking him for not being into the same.

If the cake hadn't been a giveaway, the music left nothing to the imagination, full of brass and enough wah-wah to fill a hundred cheap pornos. It was all so obvious. He could only stare in shock when the stripper turned out to have a really flat chest, just a hint of hair on the wide, flat pecs, a match to the stubble that graced the stripper's jaw.

But the shock that his bandmates had actually gotten him a male stripper was nothing to the shock that he knew him. Would know that face anywhere. He'd stared at it often enough when he was younger, fueled his fantasies with it even in years since. He'd even seen it close one magic night, washed in starlight, eyelash close; above him, below him, a part of him in a way your first would always be.

He'd also seen it washed out in pale morning-after sunlight, and remembered thinking it was funny how beautiful people looked when they were walking out the door.

Arthur thought Curt Wild was still beautiful, fey and exotic where he should look cheesy and stupid, wearing nothing but a tight pair of shorts and a smile, twisting in a unschooled but sensual way. He worked his way around the room, teasing Ray and the rest of the band, who were half-caught between laughing at his antics and being uncomfortable with so much blatant male sexuality. Teasing Shauna and the roadies, who were shouting cat-calls of encouragement. Teasing Pearl and Malcolm, there for old time's sake, and wearing shocked expressions that mirrored Arthur's.

Then he was in front of Arthur, wearing a knowing smile full of things beyond Arthur's ken, and he could only let himself be pushed back into the chair behind him, could only let himself be touched by a dream he'd thought he'd outgrown. Could only hold his breath as Curt danced closer and closer, straddling Arthur, bending down to whisper in his ear, "Do you think you could give me an interview, Mr. Stuart?"

It was like a splash of cold water, and Arthur giggled nervously at the awkwardness of it all; a fantasy come to life in his lap, sitting on the erection that Arthur couldn't hide, and apparently unmoved by it. The story of his life, really.

He heard the others laugh, too, the music changing into some New Wave synth stuff that Malcolm and Pearl were experimenting with, the sounds of a party getting into full swing breaking out around them. But Curt was still in his lap, he and Arthur like an island of silence in the chaos around them.

Realizing that Curt was waiting for an answer, Arthur wondered what he should give. Tell him no, and send him on his way, letting the whole thing die back to memory once again? Or say yes, and sit here and pretend that just being near Curt wasn't both painful and wonderful at the same time? In the end, he was either a masochist or just too damn curious, because he nodded, pushing Curt back up and leading him into his dressing room, shutting the door behind them to keep the music and reality at bay.

Arthur didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't what he got. He'd always been horrible at interviews, never knowing how to answer things with the same glib style as the other guys in the band. He always came out of the things sounding stupid, and feeling it, too. But he felt incredibly smooth compared to Curt, who'd lost all of the ease he'd had while playing his stripper role, his whole body tense as he asked awkward question after awkward question, little rhyme or reason to the order of them.

After about ten minutes of inanities such as "What's your favorite song?", Arthur couldn't take it anymore, and asked a question of his own. "Who was it you said you were interviewing me for?"

Curt paused at the interruption, but answered easily enough. "The _Herald_."

"I thought I knew all the entertainment reporters at that paper. Are you new?"

At that Curt tensed further, then suddenly flopped back on the couch he was sitting on, laughing and shaking his head. "That obvious, right? But, no, I'm not new as a reporter, just at this kind of gig. I told Lou, my editor, that I didn't want to do it, that it would just be… weird., but he didn't want to listen. Thought I would have some kind of insight into the scene that the others didn't."

The curiosity that might have driven Arthur to accept this interview was peaked at that, clamoring to know how Curt had gone from fading glitter star to reporter, and he jumped into the opening he saw. "Because you'd been a musician yourself, yeah? How did you go from that to reporter?"

Curt eyed him, obviously aware that their roles would reverse if he answered, but after a moment he just shrugged, giving Arthur that knowing smile again. "Glitter died. And I didn't. After a couple of years of struggling to get by, I figured I needed to find something else to do. The reporting was just by accident, my falling into a story when I saw something I shouldn't have. It was a couple of cops, so I was afraid to go to the police, but a little girl… well, I couldn't just let it go, either. So I asked around. All those years of living in low places, it turns out I knew a lot of people who knew other people, who knew other people, and so on and so on. Almost got me killed, but I found enough to go the press eventually. After hearing what I had to say, Lou figured if I could do it once, I could do it again, gave me a job right then and there."

"Wait, wait, I remember that story, but I don't remember seeing your name. It was-"

"Curt Ryan. Middle name. I wanted the story to be about what they had done, not who I had been. Then I just kept it after that." He shrugged again, smile turning rueful. "And Lou was right, I can do the job, it's just… well, I'm only really good at the investigative part of it. The interviews? Well, I guess I kind of suck at that for a reporter."

Arthur laughed at that, feeling a moment of connection, knowing what it was like to be both good and bad at your job. He'd always been a horrible rock star, preferring quiet and peace and anonymity in a job where those were really not on the table. He'd only got into it because of the Creatures at first, filling in to help when Billy up and left, and hanging around even as the rest of the band disintegrated. Then he'd met Ray, and they'd started talking, and one thing had just led to another, until he'd pretty much fallen into the stardom in the same way that Curt had fallen into reporting.

But his laugh caught at the look in Curt's eyes, the one that seemed to say he felt the connection, too. It hit Arthur like a Rosetta Stone, translating the knowing smile into a memory that they both shared, that was in both their minds right now, and he could almost swear he saw a shooting star flash by the corner of his eye. A wish that might just come true after all.

Then Ray and Shauna were pounding on the door, Ray's too-loud voice yelling at him to stop shtupping the stripper already and come out and have a piece of the real cake. Arthur cursed at the broken moment, but Curt laughed, all his ease back in place, and he pulled Arthur up, saying, "Come on, Birthday Boy. You can't shtupp in the face of cake. At least not with friends like yours."

The cake was really a big pan brownie, one of Shauna's specialties, and Arthur was sure that there was more than just chocolate in it. He was also sure there was no one around that would mind all that much. There were only ten candles on it, dripping wax already, and Ray took up a chant of "Blow them out, blow them out," the others chiming in behind him.

Before he could, though, Curt touched his arm, even just a brush of his hand enough to hold Arthur still. "I really should be leaving now, let you enjoy your party."

Arthur had a thousand reasons why that wasn't a good idea, but he wasn't going to get any of them out, not with a roomful of already-drunk people pawing at him, steering him forward, demanding that he do the deed.

Curt was still beside him, though, helping the others to push him forward, his voice warm in Arthur's ear. "Make a wish."

It was electric, like being in two places at once. A seedy rooftop in London, a not much better backstage room in New York, and Arthur blew out the candles with the wish that history wouldn't repeat itself.

Then Curt was even closer, leaning in again as he had with the lap dance, words a warm breath across Arthur's face. "Birthday present," was all he said, then brushed his lips against Arthur's, a kiss as warm as his breath, warmer, and even that brief contact was enough to make Arthur hard. To give him hope.

But it was Ray who'd selected the candles, which Arthur would probably have guessed if he hadn't been so distracted, but he definitely knew it when the candles relit. Arthur smiled good-naturedly at the laughter it provoked, through the mock insults about his age and blowing ability that were hurled his way, along with way too hardy slaps on the back. Arthur smiled through it all until he could slip free again, Curt long gone and his birthday wish lost in a candle's flame.

 

2.  
"Tea's on," Beth called, but he hesitated, not wanting to leave the sanctuary of the garden. He knew he shouldn't think of it that way, knew he should be more involved with Beth and the children. But it took so much energy just to get through his days; endless hours, days, weeks, fucking years of the bank and crunching numbers and the always putting on the perfect appearance. Hair in place, suit pressed, wife and kids at home, the picture of success. The picture of happiness.

In his garden, Arthur could let the mask go.

In his garden, Arthur could look at the birthday tie the children had given him and say out loud, "It's horrid." Could say, "It's a horrid, ugly tie, and it's the same stupid horrid, ugly tie they give me every year, as if I didn't have a closet of the damn things. It's the kind of birthday gift you only give to someone you don't know well enough to know what they'd truly like."

In his garden, Arthur could admit that they didn't know him because he didn't really know them. Didn't even really care to. Because he'd never meant to have them. Never even meant to be married. He'd dreamed of other things, once. Of London and of living a life where he wasn't hiding, where he didn't feel ashamed. He'd dreamed of living anything except his parents' life, where what was on the telly was his biggest concern of the day, and what his children were doing went unnoticed unless they did it loudly enough to be heard over the flashing images of a tightly-edited life far more interesting than his own. But it had all only been a dream, a fantasy of glossy magazines and fading newsprint that Beth had thrown away years ago.

In his garden, Arthur could stare at the newsprint the children had used to wrap his horrid tie, ink still fresh enough to smear, and not have to explain why the ink was smeared with his grief. Not have to explain why the story about a concert given by some stupid rock star he'd never heard of before had made him think wistfully of those once held dreams. Not have to explain why the small blurb below it, about the has-been rock star who'd died after attending the concert, cause unknown but OD suspected, made him cry with a grief stronger than anything he'd felt in endlessly numb years.

Beth called again, as she always did, all of them creatures of habit, and in his garden Arthur put on his mask and left.

3.  
Arthur looked at the cake with some trepidation. It was really more a pan brownie, and he'd bet there was more than chocolate in it, if he knew Curt, but it was the slight scorching at the edges of it that were giving him pause. Not that he wouldn't eat it, because Curt was strangely vulnerable about his lack of cooking skills, and the fact that he'd tried to bake at all set the day as pretty damn special.

Curt put one candle in the middle, wax already dribbling down its sides. He had his head down, looking up at Arthur through his bangs, well aware of what this did to him and playing on it. Curt's voice was full of mischief and promise as he said, "Make a wish."

Even suspecting there was something up, Arthur dutifully closed his eyes and made his wish, then blew out the candle for luck. The flame stuttered then relit, dancing with the breath from Curt's laugh, but Arthur ignored it as Curt pulled him in tight, kissing him. As long as he got his wish, he'd let Curt have his fun with the candles.

Arthur protested when Curt pulled away. "Hey, I thought we were having birthday sex here."

"Patience, patience. All things in their time. Can't have the birthday sex until we get the birthday presents opened, can we?"

Arthur was pretty sure they could, and was damn sure he wanted to, but Curt was obviously having fun, and that was a pleasure in and of itself. He sat back at the table and waited for his present.

It was wrapped in newspaper, in one of his stories. Arthur laughed at how carefully Curt had placed it, so that his byline was right in the middle. He tore off his own words, pulling open the box beneath only to stop, not sure of what to say. "Um… very nice."

Curt looked at him expectantly, and Arthur could only stare at the tie and wonder what he had missed. It wasn't like either of them wore ties often enough that Curt would think he needed a new one, and this one was rather ugly. In fact, it was pretty much just as horrid as the sole tie that Curt actually owned. In fact…

"Isn't this your tie?"

A knowing smile graced Curt's face, like a mark of approval for Arthur solving the puzzle. But if he'd solved it, Arthur didn't understand the answer, and he just shrugged.

Curt shook his head in mock exasperation, saying in the tone of someone who's providing hints for the clueless, "Yeah, it's mine. And it's ugly. And neither one of us would care if it got wrinkled or damaged, right?"

Arthur didn't think it could get wrinkled, the material it was made out of barely soft enough to bend, forget anything else. But then it hit him, like a Rosetta Stone, translating the knowing look into a memory of another night. He'd been teasing, saying he wanted to tie Curt down so that he could take his time. So that he could taste him all over and not let Curt distract him with hands that felt too good and an impatience that didn't want to wait. He'd laughed and suggested they use Curt's tie, since it was ugly and it wouldn't matter if they messed it up.

But Curt had tensed up and Arthur had let it go, not wanting to go anywhere Curt didn't want to. Not needing anything more than what he had.

As if reading his mind, Curt said, "I wanted to give you something you really wanted. Something you didn't already have."

He could almost have cried at that. Just by coming back into his life, bringing back color and sound where there'd been only gray and silence, just by listening to him and paying attention, just by knowing him well enough to give him something he'd really like and being there birthday after birthday, Curt had been giving him something he hadn't had. Just like he'd done for Curt, part of the connection between them.

Arthur didn't say any of that, not wanting to break the moment. Instead he took the tie, loving every ugly inch of it, and wrapped it lightly around Curt's writs and the slats of the headboard.

And he didn't say anything about the way Curt tensed up again. Instead he took his time, licking and kissing his way up and down Curt's body, paying as much attention to the crook of his elbow and the bend of his knee as he did to the hard cock that Curt kept struggling to push against him.

And he didn't say anything when Curt finally stopped begging him to do something already and pulled free from the tie's hold, turning them over until Curt was on top. Instead he grabbed Curt's hips, guiding him down onto his own hard cock, breath lost at the feel of him, at the sight of him, rising and falling over Arthur with skin flushed from Arthur's attentions, from arousal.

And he didn't say anything as they came, both of their faces laid bare, showing all the things that neither of them were saying. Instead Arthur smiled at how being with Curt seemed new every time, no matter how often they were together, no matter how many birthdays passed, and thought to himself, _got my wish_.

/story


End file.
